I get the impression Noah wants me to snap out of this. I was lying in bed this morning between Noah and Shorty and the cat waiting to have a positive emotion. I tried to feel loved. Naw. Instead I lay there with my teeth grit waiting for the fucking claws to rip apart the tendons in the sides of my knees. I was not disappointed.
I feel like I don’t know how far down I was slapped. I hate myself on pretty much every level and I am struggling to get anything done.
During the daily blow job, which is sometimes kind of fun and sometimes a dissociative nightmare, I realised Noah was starting to get close and I haven’t wanted sex lately so I asked him what he wanted to do. He wanted to put a towel down (period) and fuck me on the floor.
Fucking. When two people are fucking each other it’s a lot of fun. When one person is fucking someone it can feel pretty awful. It doesn’t help that I spent months talking to Travel Boyfriend about all the love making he wanted to do and I’m reading a Gabaldon novel where the deeply romantic lead always says that he wants to be with you.
I just get fucked. Even when it hurts terribly and I’m gritting my teeth and waiting for it to end.
That’s what monogamy means. I am a hole for Noah to use how he wants and what I want out of it is not very important. Me enjoying myself is not the point, never has been, never will be.
I was invited to a party for this afternoon but they are extremely covid conscious so it will be 100% outside and it’s raining cats and dogs. It’s also more than a half hour of riding hard away. I will be soaked to the skin before I arrive to stand around outside. Sounds fun. (I do actually like this family. They are other crazy Americans.)
I feel frozen with horror. It wouldn’t even be safe for me to stop my frothing self hatred. If I stop then Noah will think I think too highly of myself again and he will hurt me again. I need to make sure I feel like I want to be hiding under a table all day. That way I won’t get uppity.
I feel like I would turn and run if the dad in the family came over to talk to me alone. No. I’m not allowed. I might look like I’m cheating again since that’s all I do. Funny how knowing that if I even look up from the floor I might get in trouble again kills my sex drive. Dad’s been gone for almost 3 weeks. I’m not interested in sex. Sex is this terrible thing that wrecks my whole life. It isn’t life affirming.
Sex is this horrible terrible thing that was forced on me until I learned to respond and then I was punished for it. I hate sex so much. I wish I could cut the part of me that ever wants sex out of me.
I hate my body so much. I want to kill it.
> I get the impression Noah wants me to snap out of this
Eh, you’re doing what you can do. I’m having a day when I want to *not* agree that we all hate you and nobody ever does anything for you. Which is to say, a basically energetic day, when I feel like I can carry a fair bit.
Because if I agree with you about that, even by being too quiet when you say it, it’s going to be trotted out as something I agree with forever. So I need to specifically not agree.
You’re pretty far down today. Nothing seems okay. I’m sorry about that, and I’m trying to make room for it. But also, I have to be careful how much room I make.
For instance, if you do things I have every reason to be traumatised by and my tone gets bad for awhile, I “always yell at you about everything forever”. I’d say “it’s one of those days”, but unfortunately the bad impressions last after the bad day ends.
So I have to be careful what I say and don’t say. If I *ever* seem to agree, at best it’s “variable reinforcement” so what I *really* want is the worst possible for you. It’s a hard thing all around. Yes, “all around” 100% includes for you.
So: today I’m being cheerful and upbeat, sometimes in a kind of clashing, grating way. Because I’d love it to be a day when I don’t add any *new* times you can point and say, “see? see? REALLY you hate me!” You know, while I’m doing some of your chores, giving you massages, snuggling with you and so on.
We’ll get through this. And man, it’s going to *suck*. Because depression doesn’t much care what’s going on. You feel what you feel.
And that’s as much like engaging as I should do. More, probably. Because this is a lot like arguing and telling you you’re always wrong. There’s not a “right” thing for me to do, alas. Because depression doesn’t much care what’s going on. You feel what you feel.
I love and adore you. I’m trying my hardest. If I am very, very lucky, some day you’ll look back and it’ll feel like that was true, way back at the beginning of November, 2024.